Page 37 of Shifting Sands

“Another day? I told a friend I’d swing by his work with a late lunch.”

She nudges me. “His work?”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “Yes, his work.”

“And just who is this male friend you’ve managed to make in the week you’ve been here?”

“He’s just a guy I met out at Whiskey Joe’s on Friday night. He works at a garage in town. It’s not a big deal.”

“Uh-huh,” she mutters. “That blush creeping up your neck says otherwise.”

My hand flies to my cheeks, and she laughs.

“Yep, totally not a big deal.”

The ferry pulls into the dock, and we climb into my truck to make our way back to Sandcastle Cove. I tuck the memories of the day away, cataloging every detail—from Old Baldy to the feel of the breeze, the warmth of the sun, and the creak of the bike wheels. I want to be able to revisit them later, like opening a book.

I drop Amiya at her car at the wharf.

“Have fun,” she says as she hops into her car. Then she rolls the window down and shouts, “And I’ll call you to plan our girls’ night at my place. I’m gonna need details on this new guy friend.” She waggles her brows before sliding on her sunglasses.

I wave as she pulls away before looking up the address to Axles & Anchors. A thrill shoots through me at the thought of seeing Brew again.

Brandee

I’ve never seen a hotter man elbow deep in an engine in my entire life. And I’m not just saying that. He’s one sexy mechanic.

Brew’s bent over the hood of a vintage race car, sleeves rolled up, grease smudged across his forearms and across his cheek like war paint. He looks like a Dior Sauvage ad that took a detour through an auto body shop. The air in the garage smells like motor oil and steel and something else I can’t quite place—sweat, testosterone?

He doesn’t see me at first. His ball cap’s turned backward, hair curling at the edges. Sweat beads on the back of his neck. His T-shirt is clinging to his back in a way that makes my stomach flip.

I walk into the open garage bay, holding up the paper sack clutched in my fingers, and clear my throat. “So, this is your natural habitat?” I tease.

He looks up, startled, and then grins—a slow, lazy grin that turns my knees to Jell-O. “Well, well, look who brought lunch to the grease monkey.”

I walk toward him, glancing around as I weave through toolboxes and stacked tires. “Um, you’re not gonna make me eat on the hood of a greasy car, are you?”

He wipes his hands on a rag that was tucked into his back pocket. “Nah, there’s a picnic table out back by the pond.”

An old man with a lean frame and wiry gray hair and a matching beard, wearing worn-out coveralls, appears with a box in his oil-stained hands. “What the hell is this? You ordered the wrong parts,” he snaps as he walks into the bay. He startles when he looks up to see me standing with Brew.

“I ordered the parts you wrote down, old man,” Brew says.

His eyes narrow at Brew. “Bullshit. I didn’t tell you to buy this crap. I knew I should have called it in myself.”

Brew walks over and takes the box from his hands. “Now, Willis, is that any way to speak in front of a lady?”

The man reluctantly releases the mistaken parts and turns to me. His scowl transforms into a gap-toothed grin. “I apologize. It’s hard for an old man to mind his manners when dealing with these incompetent young’ns.”

“Who you call’n a young’n?” Brew quips.

The old man pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes sweat from his brow. “You.” His eyes come back to me. “He thinks he’s grown, but he’s still got a lot to learn.”

Brew comes up behind him and clasps his shoulders. “I sure do. And you’re just the smart-ass to teach me. That’s why I’m here.”

The old man scoffs. “I just made a pot of shit coffee. Would you like a cup?” he asks me.

“I’d love one,” I say, and he scoots off to a beat-up wooden door that leads to a small office.

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